Little Dorrit Vol.1 f.026 recto

“Mademoiselle doubts,”[??????][????????] said the French gentleman in his own language, “[????????????] it’s being so easy to forgive?”

“I do.”

Pet had to translate this passage to Mr Meagles, who never by any accident acquired any knowledge whatever of the language of any country into which he travelled. “Oh!” said he. “Dear me! But that’s a pity, isn’t it?”

“That I am not credulous?” said Miss Wade.

“Not exactly that. Put it another way. That you can’t believe it easy to forgive.”

“My experience,” she quietly returned, “has been correcting my belief in many respects, for some years. It is our natural progress, I have heard.”

“Well, well! But it’s not natural to bear malice, I hope?” said Mr Meagles, cheerily.

“If I had been shut up in any place to pine and suffer, I should always hate that place and wish to burn it down, or raze it to the ground. I know no more.”

“Strong, sir?” said Mr Meagles to the Frenchman; it being another of his habits to address individuals of all nations in idiomatic English, with a perfect conviction that they were bound to understand it somehow. “Rather forcible in our fair friend, you’ll agree with me, I think?”

The French gentleman courteously replied, “Plait-il?” To which Mr Meagles returned with much satisfaction, “You are right. My opinion.”

The breakfast beginning by-and-by to languish, Mr Meagles made the company a speech. It was short enough and sensible enough, considering that it was a speech at all, and hearty. It merely went to the effect that as they had all been thrown together by chance, and had all preserved a good understanding together, and were now about to disperse, and were not likely ever to find themselves all together again, what could they do better than bid farewell to one another, and give one another good-speed in a simultaneous glass of cool champagne all round the table? It was done, and with a general shaking of hands the assembly broke up for ever.

The solitary young lady all this time had said no more. She rose with the rest, and silently withdrew to a remote corner of the great room, where she sat herself on a couch in a window, seeming to watch the reflection of the water as it made a silver quivering on the bars of the lattice. She sat, turned away from the whole length of the apartment, as if she were lonely of her own haughty choice. And yet it would have been as difficult as ever to say, positively, whether she avoided the rest, or was avoided.

The shadow in which she sat, falling like a gloomy veil across her forehead, accorded very well with the character of her beauty. One could hardly see the face, so still and scornful, set off by the arched dark eyebrows, and the folds of dark hair, without wondering what its expression would be if a change came over it. That it could soften or relent, appeared next to impossible. That it could deepen into anger or any extreme of defiance, and that it